


Amoris

by iiastriferii



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale probably knew Oscar Wilde and I will die on this hill, Aziraphale recites poetry and it's quite lovely, Bottom Aziraphale (Good Omens), Dirty Talk, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Love Confessions, M/M, Poetry, Top Crowley (Good Omens), Wings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-10
Updated: 2020-01-10
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:35:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22201945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iiastriferii/pseuds/iiastriferii
Summary: In the After, they find their way around each other. This feeling, this love, fragile and new.“You singing me poetry now, angel?” Crowley’s tease had no fire behind it, but rather a vague tremble. Aziraphale took his other hand, smiled that smile that Crowley would carve into the stars if he still could.“Else it were better we should part and go. Thou to some lips of sweeter melody, and I to nurse the barren memory of unkissed kisses, and songs never sung.”
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 119





	Amoris

_As oftentimes the too resplendent sun  
Hurries the pallid and reluctant moon  
Back to her sombre cave, ere she hath won  
A single ballad from the nightingale,  
So doth thy Beauty make my lips to fail,  
And all my sweetest singing out of tune.  
\- SIlentium Amoris, Wilde, 1881_

* * *

Behold, the space between seconds.

“Oh, _Crowley…_ ”

The space between breaths, blinks, space and time.

“Ah- _fuck_ \- angel.”

Behold the principality, hands white knuckled, gripped to the headboard. His face, twisted in pleasure; his cock, straining into the open air, dripping, weeping onto the sheets.

Crowley shifts behind him, digs chipped black nails into the soft rolls of his hips. Drags the head of his cock along the cleft of quivering red arsecheeks. Aziraphale breathes out as though he’s been punched, knees shifting even further apart, fucking the air, silently begging [1]. Crowley drags hands down his back, worshiping, blaspheming as demons are wont to do as he leans down to bite the nape of Aziraphale’s neck, relishing the whining cry that falls from his lover’s lips. He licks the salt from heated skin, forked tongue flicking, scenting, bearing back to him the heady smell of lust.

Aziraphale, for his part, rolls over in his clouded mind that day that has been. The hours before, that led him to Crowley’s bed, to the desperation he feels curling serpentine in his gut.

* * *

_“Maybe one day we could...I don’t know, go for a picnic. Dine at the Ritz.”_

The Ritz had seen them time and time again, in the time before the first day of the rest of their lives, and after, when they were ‘just a little bit of a good person’ and ‘just enough of a bastard’.

St. James Park saw them again days after, Crowley stalking along with a wicker basket precariously perched on two fingers and Aziraphale prattling on about some fellow that had tried to _buy one of his first edition Whitmans, the maniac._

Crowley laughed, and stared. Stared at the way the final rays of sunlight caught the outline of Aziraphale’s halo, the closed, hidden eyes on his cheeks, disappearing into his collar. At the way his wings, tucked away as they were, still seemed to fluff and shimmer in the space between particles.

Behold, love.

A demon radiating, an angel basking.

They set themselves down under a grand old oak tree, laying the blanket and unpacking Aziraphale’s carefully curated spread. Charcuterie, cheeses. Aged prosciutto and figs; grapes and strawberries, hard crusted bread and a jar of guava jam he had nicked during a quick blessing in the West Indies. Crowley poured their wine, some bottle of pretentious white that had been aging in the bookshop since 1829, and they toasted not to the world, but to them.

“Darling,” said Aziraphale. Those had become more frequent in the After- ‘dear’ ‘darling’ ‘love’. Crowley couldn’t mind if he used all the powers of Hell to try. He hummed, swirling his wine, counting constellations in the bubbles. 

“Do you recall 1881?”

Crowley pursed his lips. He was fairly sure he had been asleep. 

“I might, what of it?”

Aziraphale stalled, looked away. Ate two pieces of brie in succession and then an indelicate swig of wine to wash it down. Crowley cocked an eyebrow. His angel was rarely so careless with food. He shifted closer, leaned down on his elbow. Aziraphale cleared his throat.

“‘Twas the year Oscar released his first batch of poems, is all.”

“Oscar?”

“Wilde, darling.”

“Ah. Him.” 

Crowley was not jealous of Oscar or Aziraphale or any...affairs they might have carried on, thank you very much [2]. A hand covered his, drawing him back into the present. Aziraphale’s eyes shifted with the changing sky, reflecting blue and orange and pink and lilac. He wet his lips, pressed them together, and Crowley was overcome with the sudden urge to chase that tongue with his own.

_So doth thy Beauty make my lips to fail;  
And sweetest singing out of tune_

“He wrote a poem then,” said Aziraphale after some time. “I always found it...well, too close for comfort, as it were.”

Crowley swallowed because he forgot that he didn’t have to.

“Oh?” he said quite dumbly.

The hand over his own grew bolder, fingers curling, lacing together.

 _“And for excess of Love, my love is dumb,”_ Aziraphale recited, and Crowley was suddenly very grateful that he did not need to breathe. _“But surely unto Thee mine eyes did show why I am silent, and my lute unstrung.”_

Their wine sat forgotten, the last bits of food fodder for marching ants as an angel and a demon came to terms with 6,000 years worth of truths. Crowley leaned in further, their foreheads brushing.

“You singing me poetry now, angel?” Crowley’s tease had no fire behind it, but rather a vague tremble. Aziraphale took his other hand, smiled that smile that Crowley would carve into the stars if he still could.

_“Else it were better we should part and go. Thou to some lips of sweeter melody, and I to nurse the barren memory of unkissed kisses, and songs never sung,”_ he finished, eyes briefly squeezing shut. 

“Angel,” was all Crowley could murmur before hands let go of his and seized his face, before lips tasting of fruits of Eden and white wine slanted across his own. His hands slid over Aziraphale’s sides, grasping, worshiping as his truest and oldest desires unfolded in this cluster of seconds. They kissed until the moon hung high in a lilac sky, until they recalled that they should at least have the appearance of needing to breathe.

When they parted, it was not far. Hands still grasped, they breathed each other’s breath. Aziraphale spoke first, while Crowley was still trying to gather all of his scattered atoms.

“I fear I have left too many songs never sung over the years, my heart.”

Heart.

Not dear, or darling.

“Aziraphale,” he said, useless against the barrage.

“You do not have to reciprocate now, darling, but...I feel I should say now, what with us being ‘on our own side’ now, and all. I...well, I find myself irrevocably in love with you.”

And there.

There it is.

Behold, revelation.

Crowley had made a series of noises that, in another life, might have been “I love you too, I’ve always loved you, ever since bloody Eden when you gave away that sword-”

When words did not suffice [3], Crowley did what he did best and showed. He showed and showed, crowding Azirpahale up against that tree, lips sliding desperate and passionate across those of his angel- his _lover_. Hands, hands in pale curls, hands in red waves and sliding down to grab the lapels of a black jacket. They found their own way back to Crowley’s flat, and remember to clean up their picnic later.

* * *

“Crowley, my darling, my love, _please…_ ”

See now the angel, sweat slicked skin and thighs trembling. See as his lover kisses and licks down his spine, teases every divot of skin until Aziraphale cries holy and rides his hips back, desperate to feel something _more_. Crowley takes his cock in hand and strokes, committing this image, this moment, his angel writhing in pleasure, to memory.

“Look at you,” he says, leaning down to tongue the shell of Aziraphale’s ear. “So open and ready. These gorgeous thighs shaking.” He slaps one, drawing out another agonized cry. “Ready to be fucked open on my cock.”

“Yes!” Aziraphale cries, and no song or sonnet, speech or poetry is a sweeter sound to his ears. Crowley begs for strength from Somebody as he lines up, as he sinks into a divine and eternal heat that, until now, existed only in the back of his dreams; in fantasies that came to him with one hand past the waistband of his pants.

“Oh, _angel!_ ” he breathes at the same time Aziraphale lets out a low moan, a deep seated thing that makes Crowley’s cock twitch. This, in turn, sends both of them shuddering. 

Aziraphale exhales, inhales, moans and whines at the inferno hot length seated inside him, fucking back in a wordless plea to _move, damn you!_

Crowley takes those gorgeous hips in hand, and obliges.

Later, the other tenants of the apartment building will report a loud, rhythmic banging that can be heard throughout the building from the hours of twilight until just before dawn. It is not so much the yelling that concerns them [4], but rather the fear that the building isn’t fashioned to take such a beating. They will have their suspicions, but they cannot possibly know.

They cannot know the way Crowley pulls Aziraphale onto his lap and fucks into him until they both fall apart at the seams.

They cannot know the way his angel sucks down his cock and does something miraculous with his tongue that sends Crowley into a moaning, writhing spiral.

They cannot know how tenderly Azirpahale looks at him when he flips over, back to the mattress and legs curling, locking around Crowley’s hips. They cannot know how Crowley loses control then, thrusting hard enough to crack the headboard against the wall while Aziraphale is crying his name out into the darkness. How he fits 6,000 years of admissions into one night, between kisses and moans and whines of _more, harder, faster, please!_

They cannot, will not, _ever_ know the way Aziraphale looks when he comes: back arching, wings bursting forth, fluttering; legs quivering in a paroxysm of divine ecstasy while he shouts declarations of “my love, my dear, right _there!_ ; Crowley, Crowley, _Crowley!_ ”

It’s all hopeless after that, after Crowley watches the streaks fly from Azirphale’s cock onto his stomach and chest. He leans down, licks into his lover’s mouth and buries himself to the hilt with an agonized cry of “ _angel!_ ”

Behold, consummation.

* * *

In the After, which is now always, they lie together. Crowley’s head pillowed on Aziraphale’s chest, their legs locked in a tangle. Fingers card through red waves, and they contemplate life, the world, and each other. Crowley smiles, laughs at something in his own head, and Aziraphale looks at him curiously.

“Penny for your thoughts, my love?”

My love. He could, and will, get used to that.

He shrugs. “Bet Oscar never gave it to you like that, eh?”

Aziraphale clucks his teeth, laying a barely there smack against his shoulder. The sting stirs his cock, and he files that tidbit away for later.

“He was a friend, nothing more.” A resolute nod of the head. Then, a moment later, another, quieter, “But no, he did not.”

Crowley allows himself a satisfied cackle, only to be silenced a moment later with a kiss. He readily falls into it, quickening once more and rolling over to sit astride Aziraphale’s hips.

More official things would perhaps come later; rings, vows, South Downs. For now, there was love.

Behold, ineffability.

* * *

[1] Silently is subjective; he has been making little punched out noises for the last half hour, but no words. Save for Crowley’s name, of course.

[2]This was a lie. He had once caught Aziraphale wistfully flipping the pages of a Wilde first edition a few years back and promptly went home to rain terror down on his dracaenas. They flourished especially well that year. 

[3]Using the term “words” very loosely

[4]Most have grown accustomed to the Strange Man Who Yells At His Plants™

**Author's Note:**

> Whew, here it is. I haven't written fic in YEARS, and of course Good Omens was the thing that finally did it. I'm absolutely gone for these two if it wasn't obvious. Lmk what you think down in the comments and come scream with me if you wanna on twitter, @iiastriferii


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